A Collection of Fabric

My sister, Babadou, gave birth in late April. I was traveling back to village from Kombo when I received a call from Samba, a friend in village, telling me that she had given birth the night before. I was so excited and so relieved that the delivery was successful and that both she and the baby were healthy. The gelly gelly (bush taxi) dropped me off in Bansang and I rode quickly home on my bike skirting through deep pockets of sand and around the cows blocking the path. Reaching her compound, I jumped off my bike and parked it against the compound fence. I ran into her hut, where she was staying for the week following the birth (Fula tradition: After giving birth, the woman has to stay inside her hut and backyard area until the naming ceremony occurs on the seventh day following the birth. I think it's great because it means a lighter workload for the mother while she is recovering from the birth and more focus on the newborn). I sat with her on the bed as she breastfed her new daughter. I asked her many questions about the birth (how painful and long it was, was there much blood, did she cry or yell, were there any complications). She laughed at my questions and very simply told me that she gave birth in the backyard with my mother and her husband's mother present. And "No," she said, "I did not cry or yell. It was not painful." I looked at her with doubtful eyes. She just smiled and handed me the tight bundle of a baby who was wrapped in many blankets. Her eyelids fluttered as she drifted back into sleep, fingers curled tightly. I tried to express to my sister how brave and incredible she was to give birth without assistance on the dirt floor, but she just laughed again.

This is my sister's daughter at three days old.

Everyday I sat with my sister and her baby (later named Fatoumatta) in her hut, often accompanied by other women in the village. Throughout the week, women carried water for bathing, laundering, and cooking to her compound because she could not leave to go to the pump. They refilled her large clay pots that hold water for drinking and, at mealtimes, they would bring extra food. Many of the older women would come to sit with Babadou in the early mornings asking about her health and Fatoumatta's health. They watched as she breastfed her and offered words of support. Before they left the hut, they would recite short prayers for both the her and Fatoumatta. One or two of the older women would return at dusk to bathe Fatoumatta with soap and water.

Women from every compound brought Babadou pieces of fabric during the week. They brought tattered shirts and skirts and other worn cloth, not having money to buy new material. Babadou layers this fabric under Fatoumatta to cushion and support her when she lays on the bed (see above picture). The layers of fabric also protect the bed sheet from getting spoiled when she goes to the bathroom. Pieces of this collection of fabric are also used to wrap Fatoumatta when Babadough is carrying her or tying her on her back. One day while we were sitting in her hut, she pointed out to me who gave her each piece. She spoke with pride when explaining that these worn but beautiful fabrics now belong to her daughter. This sharing and exchanging of fabric that occurs at each birth symbolizes, to me, the communal raising of children by the village.

Breastfeeding

The other day I was sitting with one of my good friends in village, Takko, who is in her early 20's, and her 5-month old baby, Aminata. We were shelling peanuts under the shade of the mango tree in her compound before she had to start preparing lunch. Aminata is slightly underweight for her age so I wanted to incorporate the subject of exclusive breastfeeding for the first six months into the conversation. While talking about Aminata, I told Takko that I was breastfed for the first 6 months exclusively. I then explained what foods I was fed in addition to breastmilk after six months of age and up to two years. With my hands, I motioned how large I was, but she did not believe me.

Many women here believe that women in America feed infants formula instead of breast milk, which they believe is better for the baby. When something is bought, it is often seen as being of better quality than something available for free. I explained that the majority of women in America actually breastfeed and she was very surprised. Most women in the Gambia breastfeed, but will add water and other foods before the child is six months due to a lack of knowledge.

Remembering that I had pictures of me as a baby, I ran to my hut, grabbed my photo album, and brought it back to Takko. She laughed and laughed at my very chubby baby pictures. One specifically, I am in the sink at Keene Farm being bathed by my dad. The picture does an excellent job showing all of my large rolls. Many other villages came to see what Takko was laughing at. They peered over our shoulders to get a glimpse of the picture and couldn’t believe it was me as a baby. This was also a really neat moment because it allowed me touch upon gender roles in America and how they differ from the gender roles in Gambia, which are incredibly strict. Childcare is the task of women here so to observe my father bathing me in the photograph was very intriguing for them. I went on to explain that my dad cooks, cleans, and does laundry. They thought this was very funny as these are strictly female activities. Through the laughter, I was hopefully I able to get the point across that men are capable of doing these tasks. My most effective work here will be based on conversations and interactions like these between friends where we exchange information and stories and build trust and respect by learning from each other.

This is Aminata with her father, Saidu.

Bubble Wrap

In one of the generous and amazing packages I received while at site, bubble wrap was included. I remembered how much I used to and still do enjoy popping the small pockets of air. I brought the plastic sheets out into the compound hoping the kids would discover the same satisfaction of hearing and feeling the clicks underneath the weight of your feet. They were wary at first. The concept of mail is unfamiliar to the children so I had a hard time explaining the purpose of bubble wrap. But once I demonstrated how to pop the bubbles, they quickly laid the plastic sheets on the dirt and began jumping and dancing on them. Once deflated, they used the plastic sheets as head and waist wraps displaying their new items around the village. They definitely enjoyed their bubble wrap experience and I had a great time watching them play with this new and strange thing.

Nursing Homes

I was talking with my host dad and mom in our compound after dinner a few nights ago about family systems here and in the US. My father asked about my family and specifically about my grandparents. He was very impressed with my grandmother's age and health. He asked if she lived in the same compound as my family in the US. I explained that she lives by herself in a house in a different state. They were taken aback. “Ndeer cuddi makko he hai goto kono oo?” (In a house by herself?) they kept asking, seeming rather alarmed. “Eyi” (Yes), I replied, “But family is always visiting and live close," I explained. This seemed to lessen their anxieties slightly, but they were still concerned. The idea of someone living alone, especially an older person, is very foreign to them. The compounds here are living entities. Within their fences, compounds house family members across generations. This system is one of strength, support, and security. The older individuals depend on the younger individuals for their physical labor, childbearing, and income generation. The younger generation depends on the older generation for decision making, advice, childraising, and social ties.

Feeling adventurous, I then attempted to explain nursing homes.
“Suudu money he mawbe hewbe” (Many old people live in large houses with many other old people), I explained.
“Are they related?” they asked. (This conversation continues in Pulaar, but I will leave out the translation.)
“No,” I replied, “many do not know each other.”
“Are they sick?”
“Sometimes,” I said.
“Where are their families?” they asked concerned.
“Some visit, some do not,” I explained.
"Who takes care of them? Who cooks lunch and dinner?"
"There are people that work at these homes who cook, clean and take care of them, like my mom. She is a nurse at one of these homes."
"The old people must be sad there - no children, no family, no life."
"Yes," I said. "Many times they are."

This then gave me the opportunity to explain what I think is a great aspect of Gambian culture: how elderly are cared for, respected, and incorporated into society. They are not isolated, disregarded, and medicated as is often the case in the states.

Here people always ask me about America and express their desire to get a visa and live there. Their fantasy of America is solely an image of wealth and easy living. While praising America, they always criticize and depreciate Gambia by saying that it is an ugly, poor, and unpleasant place to live. It is hard to explain that life in America is not always as easy as they think. This conversation on nursing homes was one instance where I was able to express serious admiration for their culture and I hope they were able to recognize this difference and appreciate it as well.

Time

The topic of my anthropology senior seminar class was time. We studied many different aspects of time, the most relevant now being the experience of time. My personal experience of time in the village seems to be time as a constant flow. The day is continuous and not broken into appointments or scheduled commitments. I think about the future to some degree mainly when I am thinking about my work but it is never overwhelming and I do not find myself becoming absorbed or entangled by it. Because I am constantly learning (language, culture, how to cultivate groundnuts, peoples' names, etc.), I am very aware of and involved in the present moment. In this way it is similar to being in a constant meditative state. It is so refreshing and invigorating, but also very tiring.

Because I have been living in this continuous flow, I decided it was not necessary for me to be wearing a watch. The same day I took off my watch, Fatoumatta, one of my good friends in village, received a new one. Her husband bought a black Casio digital watch for her at the weekly market. She was and still is excited about it and loves to check the time. It is interesting because a watch does not serve her much purpose. She has been living under the sky for fifty plus years so she understands the movement of the sun and she has been doing about the same routine for all of these years as well. However, now she has the knowledge of time, which she, along with many other Gambians, believe is very important information to have. I think they have gleaned that awareness of and adherence to time is a characteristic of Western culture, which they see as the ultimate culture. It struck me that as I am trying to integrate further into their culture, they are also trying to assimilate to Western culture. I attempted to free myself of time and its constraints and she welcomed this new knowledge with hope and excitement.

This is Fatoumatta and her son, Musa.

The Three Month Challenge

This photograph shows the road entering my village. Dry grasses crowd the sandy road. The cow crossing the path in the distance is evidence that this is a Fula village. Fulas are traditionally cattle herders, which means they were wide in their movement across West Africa. Today, they are settled in permanent villages, but many individuals still herd cattle. Farming (rice, coos, maize), is the main occupation now.

As a PCV, during the first three months in village, you are not supposed to embark on projects or do any real "work." It is called the "three month challenge" because it is the most intensive period of cultural integration and language learning. This time is crucial to get to know the community, learn what they have and do not have, and think about what knowledge would be beneficial to their lives. We are encouraged to develop project ideas and wait to implement them until we have a better understanding and grasp of the village. The most important activity during this time is building friendships with those in the village. Without these connections and village understanding, any project would be a failure.

I have spent much of my time visiting and hanging out in all of the compounds in my village. I sit beside the women while they prepare and cook lunch and dinner attempting to communicate in my broken Pulaar. Though I tend to speak in all of the wrong verb tenses and my sentences are jumbled, I can usually get my thought across. All of the villagers have been so patient and instructive with my language. While chatting, I usually shell peanuts, cracking them against a hard stone. The women, however, never let me crack peanuts for too long because they say it will hurt my fingers. They describe how they do not want my hands to become rough like theirs. Peanuts were harvested in December and January so since I have been here, peanut shelling seems to be a never-ending activity. Once shelled, many Gambians sell the peanuts at the markets for eventual export. Peanuts are Gambia's main crop and export. Also, a significant amount of the peanuts are kept for cooking in all of the meals.

This is Porti, a village elder, cracking peanuts during the afternoon. Seated on a rice bag under the shade of his roof overhang, he grabs peanuts from the orange bucket, cracks them, and then throws them into the pile by his leg. I spend much time in his compound with his two wives and their children. He somehow knows a little English and always attempts to speak English with me, which is amazing and hilarious.

Usually when I visit a compound, an adult sends one of the kids with 10 dalais ($1 = 27D) to the small shop in village to buy attaya (green Chinese tea) and a cup of sugar. Brewing attaya is the main social pastime of Gambians. The tea is brewed in three rounds of drinking, which can last one to two hours. A small tea kettle is used with two shot glasses. Creating foam in the shot glasses by pouring the brewed tea back and forth into each other is a large part of the experience. Lots of sugar is added and sometimes mint leaves making it delicious and very strong. My father will often brew attaya three to four times a day. Gambians are addicted to attaya like Americans are addicted to coffee.

Images from the Village:

Right now, in the months leading up to the rainy season, is the time for house and compound construction. This work is only done by men. Here a handful of men from the village are helping in the compound next to mine with hut roof construction. They will soon place this on top of the round hut in the background and then cover it with dry grass.



This is my sister's son, Ebrima. He is wearing my father's hat, which my father wears all the time even in 120 degree weather. Similar to women wearing headscarves, older men wear hats for religious purposes. Ebrima and my father are very close as they spend most of the day together. Grandparents call their grandchildren their husbands or wives so my father calls Ebrima "gorko," which means husband in Pulaar. Ebrima is also my shadow when I walk around the village and I can also always bribe him with treats.




These ladies are fetching water at the pump, which is only about 50 feet from my compound. I can finally carry water in a bucket on my head fairly successfully and the villagers are impressed. My sister is carrying the bucket on the left. She is around 8 months pregnant and continues with all of the work of the compound. Pregnant women get no breaks, which leads to a high maternal mortality rate and the high rate of anemia.




This is my wife, Fatoumatta, preparing fish with Hawa for lunch in our compound. Every morning my father rises early and bikes to the river, which is about 3K away, to buy fish from the fishermen. He then bikes to surrounding villages to sell the fish from the back of his bicycle. But before he travels to the other villages, he stops in our compound and hands Fatoumatta a string of fish for lunch. She brings him a tin cup with water to drink and to splash on the fish in his basket on his bike. We exchange the morning greetings and he continues on his way. He usually returns between 11-12:00 and will immediately start brewing his attaya.



Kids in our compound dancing, which is usually an hourly activity.

Two Months In

Hello Everyone!

I apologize for the delay in updating the blog. I know it has been awhile. I hope all is well in the States and that winter has subsided bringing warmer weather, and maybe a little less rain. It is getting rather toasty here with midday temperatures reaching 110 degrees. We are definteily into the hot season now and the temperatures will keep increasing until June when the rains come, which will be a glorious day.

Right now I am in Bansang, a small city, town rather, in the Central River Region, using the computer. Bansang is located on the main road that runs through the south bank of Gambia. My village is about 12k from Bansang in the bush. There is power here in Bansang, unreliably, from 9:00 am to 3:00 pm every day. Power means that I can drink cold chocolate milk and eat an icee (small plastic bag of frozen juice) while I type this blog- I am really living it up today. I usually come to Bansang every other week to use the computer, visit volunteers in the area, and buy vegetables for my family (onions, potatoes, cabbage, eggplant, okra).

I have been in village now for a little over two months and it has been really incredible. It is difficult to describe the strong connection I feel to my village and host family. Maybe the best way to illustrate this is through the feeling I have when I come home from a trip to either Bansang, Basse, or Kombo. It is a feeling of being settled and secure. Upon returning, as I bike into my village (Peace Corps gives all volunteers new Trek mountain bikes), the women at the pump yell "Fatoumatta" and wave as they balance heavy buckets of water on their heads, my son (He is my sister's son but also considered mine. If you are a female, your sister's children are your own.) runs from his compound to greet me on the path hoping that maybe I have brought back treats from my travels (he has a sweet tooth comparable to Nelson's). As I enter my compound, my father and mother begin extensive greetings asking about my travel, my health, the people from the place I just visited, the day, the work, and the heat. My brother's wife, Fatoumatta, comes to greet me with a big smile. Ebrima, her 7-month old son, is tied to her back with a towel. "Fatoumatta arti," she says, which means "Fatoumatta, you have returned." In conversation, much of the obvious is stated. I say "Nange na wuli" (The sun is hot) many times a day as it seems to be a requried part of the conversation, especially this time of year. These arrivals capture the energy and spirit of the village, which has made me truly happy here these past two months. There have been definite ups and downs because language and cultural adjustment are difficult, but the ups always tend to extinguish the downs.

My village is very small with only 14 compounds, maybe about 100 people. My compound is also small compared to the average Gambian compound. As I mentioned, there is my mother, Fatoumatta (Yes, there are three Fatoumattas in my compound. In Gambia, having the same name as someone else forms an instant bond between you. It is something special that you share. This is different than in American where it seems that unique names are commonly strived for. This is a small example of the difference between individualistic and collective cultures.), my father, Ebrima, my brother, Mamadou, and his wife, Fatoumatta, and their son, Ebrima. My father and mother are in their early 60's, my brother is 32 and his wife is maybe 17 or 18 years old. Fulas tend to marry girls very young, even at 14, 15, 16 years of age.



















This is my hut in our compound. I have a small backyard that contains my pit latrine, a small garden, and a bed for sleeping outside on hot nights.





This is my brother's wife, Fatoumatta, on the left holding their son, Ebrima. He is definitely one of the healthiest babies I have seen here (pictured on the right as well). She breastfed him exclusively for the first six months, which many women do not practice here because of lack of eduation. She also does not let him sit in the sand (which has animal and human waste, etc.) in the compound without putting a towel or cloth underneath him. This is revolutionary.






The boy on the right is my sister's, Babadou, son Ebrima and the other boy is from another compound. He is also named Ebrima. I posted this picture to show the ever-popular shirt and matching shorts that feature Obama's face. There are many many different versions of this here sold in all of the markets. My favorite is a shirt with a picture of Barack and Michelle dancing.




This is my sister, Babadou. I learned a few days ago, by looking at her I.D. card, that she is only 22 years old. Many Gambians do not know their age as birthdays are not celebrated so you have to ask to look at their I.D. cards to find out. I would have guessed she was close to 30 years old. She has two kids and is pregnant now. We have experienced very a different 22 years.

Note: The scars next to her eye are decorative scars characteristic of the Fula ethnic group. Both men and women have them and they are done when the individuals are young children.

I hope to update the blog again soon and tell you more of what I have been doing in village. Again, I hope all is well with everyone. Lots of love from Africa.